


si fueris romae

by Saathi1013



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: (kind of), F/F, F/M, Genderswap, Missing Scene, Multi, POV Female Character, POV Third Person Limited, Rule 63, Threesome - F/F/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:23:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4768277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013/pseuds/Saathi1013
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing you need to know is that it's not Napoleon, it's Josephine (and she's played by Eva Green).  </p><p>The second thing you need to know is that this was inspired by <a href="http://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=27264#cmt27264">a prompt</a><br/>on the Man From Uncle Kinkmeme:<br/><i>Gaby/Illya + [Josephine], voyeurism, fingering.  When Illya helps Gaby with the transmitter, things go a little further than he planned – while [Josephine] watches with a glass of Scotch and offers the occasional helpful tip.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	si fueris romae

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kleenexwoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kleenexwoman/gifts).



> The third thing you need to know that this is partially Kleenexwoman's fault, but I also blame MisterPointy and Orockthro.
> 
> No beta, no translation help - errors, if pointed out kindly, will be corrected with alacrity.

“It will be okay,” Illya says, and “I’ll be close by,” and he’s _already_ so close that Gaby can’t help but sway into him, eyelids slipping shut.

The first brush of his lips is light and nearly chaste, almost annoyingly so. She’s sober this time; she won’t break or pass out or hit him. Although if he keeps this up, she may reconsider her stance on the latter. She pushes into the kiss, adding a dirty drag of her teeth against his lip, the flick of her tongue, and he makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat, yielding to her with an ease that promises... intriguing possibilities.

Gaby’s crooked one elbow around his neck by the time Josephine comes back. The damned busybody’s not even bothering to hide the click of her heels. Justification enough, Gaby thinks, for them to be equally unapologetic about the position they’ve been caught in. Illya seems more skittish, jolting away with an irritated tension in his lower eyelids, not glaring but getting there.

Josephine casually retrieves the earrings she’d left beside her drink on the desk, drawing breath for an undoubtedly innuendo-laden quip. When the expressions on their faces register, she pauses, reconsidering. "...please, don't stop on my account," she says instead.

Gaby's eyebrows lift behind her bangs. Illya’s hand is still wrapped around the back of her thigh, ticklish; she still has one arm slung over his shoulders. "And what is it you think we're doing, exactly?"

"Oh, there are so many options, why limit yourselves?" Josephine says, snagging her drink with an indolent gesture, swirling the scotch in salute before taking a smirking sip. "Unless you want me to offer my own suggestions...?"

Gaby manages - barely - to keep from rolling her eyes.

"We do not need your help," Illya says, eyes narrow and jaw set, but his fingers aren’t trembling on Gaby’s skin and his is tone only about two-thirds as sullen as his usual, threaded with wariness instead of anger.

"I didn't say anything about need," Josephine replies. "I said want. It can be a fine line, though, don't you think?" She sits down and crosses her legs, idly picking a bit of lint off the knee of her sharply-creased, pin-striped navy slacks. "For instance, I _want_ to finish my drink before we split off into unknown dangers, but if you two have unfinished business you need to address, then I won't object to having a good view while I indulge myself."

She's staring directly at Illya's wayward hand, clearly not offering to go back out on the balcony to enjoy the cityscape. It’s as deliberate a provocation as Gaby’s seen yet, moreso than all the veiled, considering glances she gives Illya every now and then.

“You don’t mean-” he says. "This is not-"

"-the Russian way?" Josephine inquires sweetly. She takes another sip of her scotch, letting it roll around her mouth before swallowing. "Well, you know the saying, _When in Rome,_ " His expression doesn’t change, so Josephine finishes it for him, " _do as the Romans do...?_ " She sits back in her seat. "Look, if you can't take care of her, she can come over here and I’ll give a demonstration."

Now it's Gaby's turn to stare at Josephine, confounded. Josephine’s smile gets wider, the tip of her tongue curling over one incisor and running across the line of her teeth. Gaby’s face burns, remembering the sounds that Illya’s radio had picked up from the bug in Josephine’s suite last night.

Had her little act with Victoria carried a measure of genuine enthusiasm? It’s hard to tell where Josephine’s masks end. Is this merely a ploy to needle Illya, a momentary diversion she’ll get bored with, or a challenge to see if Gaby and Illya will slip, exposing a useful vulnerability? It could be any or all of those things, and Gaby wouldn’t ever know for sure.

Not that Gaby has any stones to throw.

It’s perhaps this - the sudden, fierce desire to have something true, something _real_ , before Gaby has to dial up her own act and throw her partners to the circling wolves of war - that decides her. Josephine’s glittering, avaricious gaze will turn to shocked betrayal soon, and Gaby’s grown fond enough of the clever, light-fingered woman that hurting her is a dreadful prospect. The same goes for Illya, though when he’s looking up at her with his wide, open blue eyes, it’s _worse_ , knowing how far his guard had to fall to let her this close.

Gaby wants to give them honesty before she has to damn them with a lie.

She can’t pretend it’s not equal parts selfishness _and_ masochism; whatever happens after her meeting with her uncle, memories of kissing Illya will taste like chalk and ash and bitter remorse. It’ll be the _least_ she deserves, if she even survives herself.

 _When in Rome,_ she thinks. "What if I didn’t come over there?" she asks, like a dare, like a wager. "Would you just sit there, doing nothing? Could you?"

"I wouldn’t necessarily do _nothing_ ," Josephine says. "But I'd stay in this chair, if that's what you're asking."

"You stand, this stops," Gaby tells her.

"What-" Illya starts, looking up at Gaby with a furrowed brow.

She bends over him again, “You’ll take good care of me,” she murmurs against his mouth, “won’t you?” and drinks deep of the involuntary moan he gives in return for her kiss, fiercer now and single-mindedly intent.

When she lets him up for air, his ears are pink and he’s stiffly avoiding looking over at Josephine, his sightline hovering somewhere around Gaby's left earring. It’s not unlike the expression he’d gotten last night, when the sounds on the radio had resolved into clarity; it reminds Gaby of the skittishness he’d had when she’d been dancing drunken circles around him the night before that.

It’s what he looks like when he wants what he thinks he shouldn’t, when it’s right within his grasp and he can’t bring himself to give in and _take_ it.

“Please,” Gaby says, needing him to believe it. “I need y-”

This time, it’s Illya who cuts her off, one warm hand cupping her elbow, pulling her down gently. He kisses her until her knees go weak and she has to brace herself on him, her forearms on his steady shoulders. His touch is sure at the small of her back; his fingers slip under the edges of the cutout of her dress while the other hand inches higher on her leg.

Her mouth shifts away from his, skips along his jaw, their cheeks brushing in an echo of her last memory the from other night. She still doesn’t know how she had gotten to bed, but her pyjamas hadn't been disturbed and she hadn't felt any unusual aches besides the hangover, so Illya must have been a perfect gentleman.

She appreciates his restraint and courtesy, but has no need of it now. Sinking her teeth into the soft skin of his earlobe gets rewarded by a groan and the involuntary clutch of his hands.

God, he's so _big_. Gaby imagines what he'd feel like, how wide, how careful his fingers would be inside her, opening her up.

Josephine’s are different, more agile, more mobile, more graceful. She’d probably use her mouth to drive Gaby to distraction and slip two fingers deep, right to the last knuckle, without missing a beat, cracking her open like a safe.

Gaby doesn’t know why she’s thinking about Josephine when Illya’s touch is on her, his thumb tracing the scalloped trim on the leg of her panties, right down into the crease. Maybe because Josephine’s gaze feels as heated, as tangible, as Illya’s touch. Gaby spares Josephine a glance only to see her worrying away the crimson lipcolor staining her lower lip, one closely-manicured hand disappearing behind her vest, under the cream silk of her unbuttoned blouse.

Petulantly, she wishes she could see Josephine vulnerable, even in this – _especially_ in this. It’s only fair, when Illya’s lifting the hem of her skirt and stooping to run a line of deliberate, reverent kisses up from her knee. His breath skims heat up her thighs and she reels when he puts his open mouth at the crotch of her panties, both of his hands now firmly wrapped around her hips, holding her up.

“How _does_ she taste, Peril?” Josephine murmurs.

Illya’s moan shivers through Gaby’s skin, heat flaring at the base of her spine as she sways into him. She wants nothing more than to bear him down to the floor again, see if he’ll let her ride his mouth until she’s boneless and wrung out.

The impulse is so strong that she bites back a disappointed whine when Illya straightens, his eyes storm-dark. “Can I–" His voice stumbles and wets his lips with his tongue, swallowing before he tries once more: “May I–"

“Yes,” Gaby tells him before he can finish. “ _Please_.”

He looks over his shoulder at Josephine, who gives him a little ‘go on’ gesture with her free hand. “Don’t expect me to stop you,” she says.

Illya drags Gaby’s underwear down, over the transmitter on her garter, and she bends to lift them from where they’ve tangled around the heel of her shoe. Illya kisses her when her face is level with his, hooks his elbow around the back of her knees, sweeping her off her feet and into his arms as though she weighs nothing. She’s so used to fighting for respect from small men that she’s still startled by his overpowering deference.

She lands on the couch cushions with hardly a bounce, not that she’d notice, as busy as she is mapping the shape of his shoulders, memorizing the feel of his tongue as it rolls against hers. He settles next to her, pulling one of her legs over his lap.

“Ah,” Josephine says, “Yes, _there_ , like that,” as if he’s reaching under _her_ skirt - or, more accurately, into her trousers, as she’s doing herself when Gaby pulls away to look. She’s long since abandoned her glass, a thin line of amber still glowing at the bottom. Gaby wonders if her mouth tastes like scotch, if she’s as wet as Gaby feels.

Gaby’s never been with a girl; would Josephine be as soft as the women Gaby’s imagined idly, as yielding? Or would they spar in bed as well as they do – as they all do – out of it?

Illya’s watching Gaby as raptly as Josephine is watching them, learning the shape of her, proving that his earlier words about _getting lost_ were all jest and no truth. He knows very well what he’s doing, and his hands are definitely not cold any longer. Gaby squirms, wanting to touch him, wanting to drive him as crazy as he’s doing to her, but the angle’s all wrong and he’s not helping.

There’s a smile in his eyes as she huffs her frustration, and Gaby realizes he’s staying out of reach on purpose. She bares her teeth at him, tensing to surge up, straddle his lap and gain the high ground again, but then his index finger slides into her, the pad of his thumb rolling over the buried ridge of her clit, and she gasps, intentions forgotten in an instant.

“ _Ti takaya krasivaya_ ,” he murmurs, and she frowns, wishing she knew more Russian. “So beautiful,” he explains, letting her catch his mouth with hers.

He’s not as patient as she expected; he fucks her with one finger and then two, setting a pace that sends all the air rushing from her lungs. She finds out why soon enough, because when the sensations crest, he doesn’t stop, just gentles his strokes until she starts to come down.

And then he does it a second time, and then a third. There’s a hint of a grin in the corners of his mouth, in his gaze, as she clutches his forearm, swallowing a shout.

“She _does_ need to walk after this,” Josephine points out from across the room, sounding equally breathless. “We can save some fun for later, hm?” Illya drags his fingers out of Gaby, tracing a figure eight that loops from her entrance to her clit and then back, eliciting another cascade of smaller shudders.

Gaby catches his wrist, too sensitive for more, and lifts his hand away and up. “Do you want–?” she asks, bowing her head to take his fingertips between her lips, tasting herself and the salt of his skin.

He hisses, watching her, then shakes his head, regret clear in his conflicted expression. “We don’t have time for what I want,” he tells her. “Like Josephine says: _later_.”

Gaby can’t tell him that the promise in his voice is a promise she’s already broken for all of them. So she sucks his fingers clean and stands on unsteady legs, smoothing down her skirt and crossing the room to lean over Josephine. She looks up at Gaby, curiosity and bravado in the tilt of her head.

“You didn’t get up,” Gaby observes.

“No, I didn’t,” Josephine says, and Gaby kisses her, feeling lipstick catch and drag, feeling Josephine’s pleased moan. She slides her hand into Josephine’s blouse, plucking at the peaked nipple and Josephine arches, pulling away to gasp. Gaby tilts her knee against the inseam of Josephine’s trousers, where she can see the renewed motion of Josephine’s wrist.

She falls apart beneath Gaby, laughing and cursing. Gaby wants to suck a bruise into her skin, mark her before Victoria gets her claws in again. Instead, she kisses Josephine’s clever mouth one last time and steps back, straightening her spine and squaring her shoulders. This is all she gets.

“Finish your drink, Josephine,” Gaby tells her. “We have work to do.”

Obedient for once, Josephine recaptures her drink and downs the last dregs of it, raising the empty glass in a salute before she rises from her chair, twitching her clothing back into place. “By the way,” she tells Gaby, leaning in close. “You taste better than the scotch.”

Gaby feels her face heat, and looks away only to catch Illya’s shrug. “She’s not wrong,” he says, getting to his feet and tugging his jacket down in front. “Though I think you should both, ah–” he swipes his thumb along his lower lip, lifting away some color. “Stop by the powder room before you go?”

Josephine glances into the nearest mirror and grins at the ruin of her lipstick. “Fair point,” she concedes, and gets her purse, detouring to pause beside him, almost – but not quite – at a level with him in her heels. “Although before I do…” The height difference is negligible, though, as she leans in to brush her mouth over his, wicked and fleeting. “Good show, Peril,” she murmurs. “I’ll return the favor when I get the chance, how’s that?”

Illya looks dazed at the prospect, and Gaby can’t blame him. Josephine’s bed seems very large, looming in her peripheral vision.

Gaby tucks those mental images away, deep in the recesses of her mind, locking them up. They may not all come back today, and she needs to face up to that. She starts by touching up her makeup, keeping her hand steady through sheer force of will.

The massive ring on her finger catches the light, and a thread of errant hope begins to bloom anyway.

— END —

**Author's Note:**

> Kleenexwoman made [a polyvore collection for Josephine](http://www.polyvore.com/josephine_solo/set?.embedder=16972921&.src=share_desktop&.svc=tumblr&id=178116805), and it's FABULOUS!


End file.
